


Until the Sun Rises

by TheBoneWitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 3-Part Story, Angst with a Happy Ending, Destiel - Freeform, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fallen Castiel, Fluff and Smut, Gay, I don't know what season, Kissing, M/M, Mild Cannon Divergence, Mild Injury, Motel, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Sam Winchester, Oneshot, Pie, Smut, Wendigo, wyoming - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21997828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoneWitch/pseuds/TheBoneWitch
Summary: A sad motel in a decrepit town and miles of road and a world to save, an angel who fell from grace and a hunter who is just trying his best in a reality where nothing is good enough.In a life full of decisions, they want to make one that they won't regret, at least, until the sun rises.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Castiel
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of the series finale, I thought I'd republish this. I wrote all of this more than a year ago, and I just reread it, and oh dear lord I'm emotional.

Nothing is ever what you'd think it'd be.  
Their first encounter wasn't beautiful or romantic. It wasn't a hallmark moment or something to sheepishly smile at afterward.  
It was like every aspect of those poor boys' lives.  
Fast and hard and rough and breathlessly encapsulating.  
It wasn't anywhere memorable. It was in a motel room in northern Wyoming.  
Sam had stayed home at the bunker, doing what he did best. Researching the next big bad that threatened the world.  
That left Dean and Cas to drive to the wendigo case in northern Wyoming, a desolate sort of town with only one motel chain.  
The impala doors creaked and slammed, the driver's side with more force than was necessary.  
Dean glowered in silence, pulling open the trunk and roughly grabbing their duffel bags. He purposely didn't look Castiel in the eye and threw the bag at him. The angel hissed out a pained breath. The Winchester ignored him.  
The motel room was bleak, two full beds, and an archaic television and a door to what was assumed to a bathroom. The door had three massive locks on it, which didn't bode well for the security of the town.  
The monster was dead. This would typically call for a night in the nearest bar, ridiculous amounts of beer, and messy attempts at seducing the waitress for Cas. Dean had been looking forward to it, but he figured getting wasted off of Jack Daniels in a crappy motel room with a fallen angel was close enough.  
"Dean," Cas tried after several moments of tense silence. The Winchester pointedly ignored him and poured another shot of whiskey, downing it without even so much as a grimace.  
Cas looked sorely at him, wondering how long he'd stay angry. He had known Dean for long enough to know that the grudges lasted longer than Cas would like.  
Castiel shuffled to the bathroom but left the door open. Even angry, Dean would still help. Eventually.  
Wincing at every movement, Castiel marveled at the pain. It was fantastically horrendous.  
The trench coat had been traded in for a more practical outfit when he had first fallen. Though the brothers had offered him access to their wardrobes of endless flannel, Castiel had opted to find his own style. He had immediately been drawn to richly dark colors, and he found graphic T-shirt's strangely funny. With one of their stolen credit cards, he bought himself as many clothes as he could carry back to the car.  
He was thankful he had decided not to wear his favorite shirt that day, the one with the picture of a cat stating that it hated Mondays. It was hilarious because the cat didn't have a job, nor was any of his days indistinguishable from the next, the stupidity of the joke made Cas crack a wry smile almost every time he looked at it.  
He shrugged off his canvas coat to the floor, regarding himself in the mirror. The dark blood was shiny on the black cloth of his shirt.  
He rummaged around in the drawers under the sink. He finally found a pair of scissors, blunt and rusty, but sufficient for his task.  
He started slowly at the bottom, cutting the shirt away from his bloodied, sticky body. He knew the exact moment Dean appeared in the doorway with his shot glass in hand, not offering help but leaning against the door jamb.  
Castiel didn't acknowledge him and continued cutting.  
Slowly, he peeled away the black fabric from the puckered wounds. His skin quivered at the disgusting sensation. He let out a weary grunt as the cold air of the bathroom hit the cuts.  
Dean watched on with pursed lips and raised chin.  
Castiel could see his sides heaving as he panted from the pain, and how it hurt worse with every breath.  
He raised a tan hand to his stomach where the cuts were and slowly ran his index finger down the biggest cut.  
His grace was fleeting and small, only able to perform small healings until he was juiced up and ready to go again. He had already taken care of Dean's wounds, leaving almost nothing to himself.  
It was worth it.  
Soft white/blue light spilled from the deep cut, shining as he sealed it shut. He wasn't entirely sure why he still had grace now that he was fallen, but it wasn't enough to even call him an angel anymore. He was no longer celestial, and he still wasn't sure how to feel about that.  
He was halfway through the second of the three cuts before the grace sputtered and gave out. There was nothing else to give in the reserves.  
Blood ran lazily down the cracks in his skin. Castiel's head throbbed.  
Dean threw back his head and finished the shot. He shouldered past Castiel and into the bathroom, finding himself his own first aid kit. Dental floss and a sewing needle.  
He brought the whiskey into the bathroom.  
He grunted with a gesture, and Castiel slid up onto the bathroom counter, stretching out his side for Dean to see.  
The Winchester flicked open his lighter and sterilized the needle. He then took the whiskey bottle and splashed some on the cuts. Castiel growled, but Dean didn't care. He handed the bottle to Cas, who took a deep draw of the disgusting liquid.  
Pinch, pull, pinch, pull. It was rhythmic and almost soothing, especially with Dean's warm, rough hands pressed against his side to keep him steady.  
Dean finished the stitches on the last cut. He didn't bother looking for the scissors that were within reach, he ducked his head down and bit through the dental floss.  
Castiel held his breath, an odd feeling squirmed in his stomach as Dean's hot breath washed over his skin.  
The Winchester abruptly sat back up, the hard set of his jaw continued to narrate his anger.  
"Thank you." Castiel offered, handing back the amber brown bottle to Dean. He took it and stalked from the bathroom without a word.  
Castiel didn't know what to do. He knew what to do when he yelled and swore, Cas could handle that. This was different, this was silent, hurt anger.  
Castiel put scotch tape on a tattered washcloth and left the bathroom too.  
Dean was leaning against the counter, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He wasn't even bothering to pour the whiskey in a shot glass, he was drinking it straight from the bottle.  
"I don't understand why you're angry," Castiel said, not ready to sit down yet. His side ached. Cold air poured down on him from the vent above, reminding him of his state of undress.  
"I understand that I'm still easily confused by human emotions and that we killed the monster." He tilted his head at Dean.  
"Isn't that what we're supposed to do?" Kill the monster?" It was an innocent enough question.  
Dean finally caved and threw a venomous glare at the graceless angel.  
"We're supposed to kill the monster, but not let it kill us too!" His voice raised at the end. Castiel started to feel relieved. He knew how to handle the loud sort of anger.  
"But I didn't let it kill me,"  
"BUT IT ALMOST GOT YOU," Dean interrupted, straightening up from his leaned position. He slammed the whiskey bottle on the counter and pointed an accusatory finger at the injured man.  
"That thing almost killed you, Cas! The only reason you weren't gored all the way through was because it was already dying. Your grace is fading," he continued, voice rising with every step closer he got. "You are almost tapped out of angel juice, then you go around getting hurt and healing me even though you needed it more!"  
"But Dean," Castiel was still missing the point. "You had a concussion, I was just-"  
"YOU COULD HAVE DIED, DAMN IT," Dean yelled, louder than Cas had heard before. The angel stilled, but Dean continued, albeit quieter.  
"You could have died, and then what? What would I have done? Did you think of that before you ran at the fucking wendigo?" Dean was less than a foot away now, shrewd eyes glaring down at the angel who refused to bend away.  
"What would I do if you died?"  
He finally understood, then.  
"You don't want me to die," Castiel tried the words out in his mouth, frowning.  
"You didn't know that?" Dean cried out incredulously. "How could you not know that?"  
"I'm not used to people, or angels... caring." He said indifferently with a small shrug.  
"Well, I care," Dean continued without hesitation, still yelling. "AND I'LL BE DAMNED BEFORE YOU EVER PULL A STUNT LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN,"  
He grabbed Cas by the shoulders, and none too gently shoved him against the wall.  
"Do you understand?" He growled.  
"Yes," Castiel answered gently, leveling his gaze with Dean's.  
Seconds passed, and Dean still had him against the wall, looking. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, and neither did Castiel. He searched and wandered through the angel's eyes, a color so blue it could only, no matter how unoriginal, be described as heavenly.  
The ache in Cas' side burned, such a mundane thing but the heat of the hunter's rough palms pressing on his shoulders, indelicately pinning him against the thin walls of a motel, that was anything but mundane.  
Castiel had lived through the most magnificent expanse of time the only way he knew how, with indifference, paired only occasionally with confusion and anger.  
This was different.  
He was human, or at the closest, he'd ever been to one in his immortal life.  
He was older than the earth itself but just beginning to live.  
He had fallen from grace, fallen from heaven and his family. He abandoned all that he knew, all that he had, all that he was, for earth. For humanity. For two stupid, brilliant boys that were destined time and time again to save the world from the mistakes that his father made.  
Castiel guessed that he had fallen in love too. He fell in love with the trees, and the dirt and the sky, he fell in love with laughter and love itself and apple pie.  
He could smell the alcohol on Dean's breath, the sweat on his skin, the dried blood on his clothes, the sharp coppery scent of gunshot shells that permanently clung to his hands.  
It wasn't until the hunter swallowed, hard, that Castiel noticed how close he really was. Hovering over him like an overprotective shadow, the difference in height was just enough that Castiel rested his head on the wall, tilting his chin up to meet Dean's eyes.  
Eyes so green, so unfiltered, so earthly rich and unyielding.  
He slowly but surely appreciated the effects of his loss in grace. He couldn't heal nearly as fast, travel instantaneously, or feel the air under his feathers in flight. Yet, he could finally understand and find solace in eyes like his, the emotion they carried, and how he was beginning to chip away again definition for those emotions.  
"For what it's worth," Castiel tried and failed at whispering, the salt rasp of his voice the only noise in the room. "I don't want you to die either," he offered, hoping it would make Dean feel better.  
It really didn't.  
Ever so slowly, the hunter closed the space between them until their faces were just millimeters apart. Their noses brushed, and Castiel could taste the sour whiskey on his breath, his own lips unconsciously parted.  
He waited  
And waited.  
Castiel wasn't sure what this all meant, he barely understood basic human emotions, let alone whatever conflict this was.  
Dean's body was just a hairbreadth away from him, the heat of him warmed Cas' still naked chest. He wondered when it would be an appropriate time to put on a shirt.  
Dean seemed to be warring with himself, near panting above Cas' body.  
It was an internal conflict, just enough alcohol was in his system that it wouldn't let him walk away from this, but not enough alcohol to render this a good idea.  
He agonized over it, those candy eyes locked on Castiel's lips that he didn't remember parting.  
Castiel did what he did best, and waited. Patiently waiting and barely breathing, wanting everything but not knowing he wanted it.  
"Dean," he asked, startling him. Castiel's bottom lip ghosted along the edge of Deans, making his heart pound in his chest. If Cas focused on it, he could feel the erratic beating against his own skin or watch his pulse flicker on Dean's throat.  
His throat. Castiel swallowed hard, not knowing why the sight of Dean's exposed throat made his stomach feel the way it did.  
"What?" Dean answered, his voice rough, and had a thin edge of pain in it.  
Dean wanted to let go. He wanted to push away from the wall, shove Cas away like he'd done before.  
It was easier to be alone than to live like this, yearning and wanting and feeling.  
It was such a dangerous thing, to feel.  
The angel smelled the way he always did, like cold wind and slightly burnt metal, but he was beginning to smell more human too. Like motel soap and fresh blood, the impalas seats and whatever food he had eaten last at some greasy spoon that morning.  
"I don't remember," the angel conceded, not able to tear his eyes from the perfectly symmetrical tantalizing tease that was Dean's lips.  
"Then shut up," Dean whispered back, his heart in his throat. Dean didn't get nervous. Butterflies didn't attack his stomach, his palms never sweat, he never had to swallow the accumulating lump in his throat.  
Dean Winchester had battled monsters. He had fought demons and angels, bloodthirsty creatures from the darkest corners of the world. He had been to hell, god damn it.  
None of those experiences made his knees weak, made his heart race, or make his stomach clench low in his abdomen like this.  
Sam's voice droned in his head about how he had a near-death experience and how this was just his body acclimating to the shock and adrenaline. He shouldn't be making any big decisions right now because he just fought a battle, and after, anything seemed like a good idea.  
Shut the fuck up, Sam. He shoved his little brother's voice to the back of his head.  
Logic wasn't really what he wanted at the moment.  
When Castiel gripped Dean tightly and raised him from perdition, he knew little of what else would happen. He had his orders, and whether or not he followed them was not relevant, but he got him out. He pulled him from the screaming, the pain, the torture. It burnt his feathers and scorched his skin, he lost brothers and sisters, but, Dean Winchester was saved.  
Again and again, he was saved. Whether it be from demon, angel, monster, himself, it didn't matter.  
Castiel was always there to save him.  
Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.  
So perhaps that's why he did it, to save him. To save him the decision or the regret, save him from concocting a self-loathing excuse to plaster on to the heavyweight on his shoulders. Maybe he did it to keep him from yawning cavern of loneliness that grew in their chests, a sensation that was new to the angel.  
Or maybe, it was because he wanted it, too. A servant of god since the dawn of creation, following the orders of the higher-ups, bending to the will and wishes of people. But he was apart of team free will now, and he had a whole life of living to catch up on.  
So, in the end, it wasn't Dean that closed the space. He never would have decided, just stayed there, confused and in pain, waiting for something that would never come.  
Except, of course, for divine intervention.  
So Castiel screwed his eyes shut and pushed their lips together. He paused, ready for the hunter to shove him away, wipe his mouth, and tell the angel promptly to get the fuck out.  
Dean gasped against his mouth but didn't move away. Slowly, his tensed, rigid shoulders relaxed, his hold on Cas' shoulders loosened, less of pinning him to the wall and more to just touch him.  
This is the part where Dean would have taken over, where he would kiss him ravenously, hungry for the touch of skin, but he didn't. With every other kiss, every touch, it was just for the night. The impenetrable bubble of fingers trailing over skin and goosebumps, heavy eyes, and satisfied sighs always broke with the rays of dawn, and she left. Out the door of whatever decrepit hotel they were in, never to be seen again.  
Dean didn't want that this time. He didn't want to just fall into this, fall into bed, and fall into regret. He didn't want to watch Castiel walk out of the motel and never see him again. The thought of that happening almost ruined the kiss for him, the panic was real.  
Cas really didn't like the taste of whiskey on its own. He had to lose most of his grace and his wings to even understand the effects of alcohol, but he still didn't acquire the need to drink it.  
He did, however, like the way Dean tasted, and he supposed that whiskey wasn't that bad.  
The gentle, tentative kiss was broken naturally. Both of their heads gravitated backward, Cas' colliding harder with the wall than he would have liked, but he was still too stunned to make sense of it. The slashes in his side were drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the thrumming in his veins.  
When his eyes finally focused, he surveyed Dean's reaction. His plan wasn't an original because the hunter was doing the same thing, his lush lips still parted and eyes shinning a brilliant green that sparked the same feeling in Cas as before.  
Slowly, Dean's hands slipped down from his shoulders, trailing quicker down his chest until they rested at his sides. The hunter took a step back until he collapsed in the chair that a part of a mismatched set to a card table that was unceremoniously shoved in the corner of the motel room.  
Dean ran a hand over his mouth, his eyes still following the rapid rise and fall of Castiel's chest. He started nursing on the bottle of whiskey again, but not at the pace he was earlier.  
It took a while for Cas to steady his breath and control his heart, allowing the searing pain to race back up his side and into his bones. The cold wall bit at his back, so he eventually pushed himself off of the wall, aware of Dean's eyes on him the whole time as he retreated to his bag to find a new shirt.  
Cas was sure they weren't going to talk about it, at least, not now.  
He shrugged on the new shirt, this one was gray and promoted a school he had never gone to or even knew what it was, but it was loose and didn't touch the makeshift bandage, so he didn't mind it.  
He took a seat across from Dean at the table, and with a long arm, he snagged the bottle from his grasp. He didn't want to wash the taste of him from his mouth, but he figured ibuprofen and booze had worked well enough for the boys' injuries before that he might give it a shot.  
He took a swig from the bottle and winced. It was disgusting.  
The phone in Dean's pocket starting buzzing, pulling some of the tension from the room. He flicked it open and held to his ear.  
Castiel listened as well as he could, but there was an excited buzz in his head that he just couldn't shake.  
He recapped their run-in with the wendigo to Sam with little detail and the occasional lie so the younger Winchester wouldn't grow concerned or guilty for not coming with.  
Even with his injury in mind, Castiel was happy he didn't come with.  
Dean soon became bored though, with talking, and soon his responses were just grunts, and finally, Sam took the hint and bid the both of them goodnight.  
The alcohol was starting to get to Cas in the best way. His side dulled down to an annoying scrape, and the world felt just the right amount of fuzzy.  
Dean tossed the phone on the table and watched Castiel play with the bottle of whiskey.  
It was more than half empty, but both of them were at fault for that.  
They didn't speak, no unnecessary words spilled from lips, no casual conversation to pass the time but the blooming silence that pressed against Cas' eardrums.  
He could taste it on the air, after watching Dean shred a piece of notebook paper that littered the desk, even on his whiskey covered tongue, it was there. This was the sort of timeless nights, the ones the stretch on and on into space, it was a night for making mistakes. It was the sort of night when you think that the morning will never come, or if it does, you'll be a different person than you were that night. Time didn't seem to exist, and it didn't matter to Cas. Time was something he was just beginning to grasp the concept of because he never needed it before. His life didn't matter on time or the lives of things around him, he was just there. He always was and assumed he'd always be. But it was different now. Now, he had an expiration date. His grace was fleeting, his wings ripped from his body, connection to his family was gone.  
Now he was almost a man, a man with the memories of the dawn of creation, the birth of Christ, the forming of Pangaea, and the way it broke apart, evolution in the most primal sense. He had literally been witness to everything, but none of that mattered because he was in a motel room in the middle of Wyoming, and god strike him down if he didn't kiss Dean Winchester again.  
Sharp pain brought him back from where ever he was. A spasm rocked through his body from the tingling edges of the ragged wound, making his leg jump. Nerves were also something he didn't understand.  
Cas winced with a grunt and lifted up the edge of his shirt, inspecting the wound.  
Dean watched carefully with a furrowed brow as Cas peeked under the edge of the bandage to make sure that the wound was fine. It still oozed blood, wetting the washcloth, but it was nothing to be concerned about. Well, beyond a reasonable amount.  
In an attempt to make the sharp jumping pains to seize him again, Cas tried standing to alleviate the pressure. Though it stretched out the skin around the cuts, it felt much better than before. He pressed a hand over the wad on his side and wandered around the small room, kicking his bag under his bed and looked through the closets without real interest.  
No matter how many times he circled the room, he always ended up in front of Dean. Then he would walk around again, finding something different to poke at, kicking off his shoes or re-locking the doors, until finally, Dean snapped.  
"For the love of God, Cas!" he hollered, "Sit down and stop moving, you're making me anxious."  
Cas paused where he was standing, trying to peer over the edge of the television.  
He wasn't sure where to sit, so he carefully just folded his legs underneath himself and sat cross-legged on the floor, staring pensively at Dean.  
The hunter rolled his eyes.  
"I want to say that you're drunk, but I know that you act like this when you're sober, too," he sighed. "Get off the floor, Cas," he grunted almost in despondence.  
Castiel rose from the floor and once again stood above him, not sure what to do.  
Dean made the decision for him when he licked his lips.  
It was practically an invitation.  
Cas took two steps and stood between Dean's knees, knees that allowed him entrance without thought. Cas tilted his head like he always did when he was curious but didn't touch him yet; he had to decide where first.  
The nerves and butterflies that once assaulted him now gave him guidance, making his body hum happily with the excitement of the situation.  
Dean didn't move. He barely breathed, fists clenched tightly on his thighs so they wouldn't wander. His eyes were fixated on the angel, on what he might do next. It was always a mystery to him.  
Ever so slowly, Cas reached out his hand and brushed his finger across the curve of Dean's lip, tracing the edge with a touch so gentle it almost tickled.  
Almost.  
A warm feeling spread through Cas' stomach when he came to the satisfactory conclusion that he was the last person to kiss those lips, and hopefully, he'd do it again.  
Dean swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. The angel repeated the action and added his other hand, tracing Dean's jaw with his knuckle, eliciting a choked sigh from the hunter. Castiel lowered himself down and dragged his hands down from Dean's face to his neck, where he held onto his shoulders.  
Dean's breath that was dangerously close to a pant washed over Castiel's face, just an inch away from each other. It wasn't hard to figure out that Dean wanted it too, but his hands stayed where he had set them in the first place, clenched tightly and pushing as hard as he could against his thighs.  
Castiel shifted his hand, so he was cupping the side of Dean's neck, feeling the erratic pulse of his heart, fluttering uncontrollably against his palm.  
The angel decided that he liked making Dean squirm, even though he wasn't sure how he was doing it, but liked the way he shivered.  
Damn this angel, Dean thought as he was nearly in pain from keeping himself back. Damn this angel and his eyes and his fingers and the way he smelled, the way he walked and the way he wanted to save a world that hated him. Damn him.  
Perhaps it was because Dean Winchester had terrible self-control and made most of his decisions on impulse because if he didn't, he would overthink it until he passed out from exhaustion or frustration. Maybe both.  
Castiel was the one who thought he was going to initiate the kiss like he had before, but it was Dean.  
Dean wanted to move his hands, to grab Castiel by the hips and drag him down, to show him how a kiss was supposed to be and damn near consume him. He wanted to forget his name and make Cas forget his too, he wanted and wanted and wanted. He wanted the sun to never come up and for the world to not need saving for just a day, a day to let him get what he wanted, just for once.  
And he wanted Castiel. That broken angel that had slowly seduced him with head tilts and goofy grins, blue ties, and trench coats.  
Instead, he kissed him slowly. Slow and cautious, gauging reactions and learning each other. It might have been awkward to kiss his best friend if it hadn't felt so right. If the sliding of their lips wasn't choreographed like a dance, if they didn't fit together like chip sliding into place, they would have thought about stopping, stepping back and reevaluating.  
But it was, so they didn't. It wasn't a moment to regret it.  
The night was full of slow kisses but no more whiskey. Hushed voices filled the stale motel air, but nothing else, they talked the night away between hesitant, shy kisses. They weren't sure what this was, what it would become if anything at all. So for now, it was just tame, but heart-stopping kisses and butterfly touches that ghosted necks and arms, and fingers laced together like was the end of the world.  
Because it very well might be.  
In the end, the sun did rise, and the world needed to be saved again. Miles needed to be devoured under the wheels of the impala, and Led Zeppelin needed to be sung to by two off-key voices that didn't care because they weren't singing for anyone but each other and maybe the car itself.


	2. Bunker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An optional addition, if you think the first chapter is good enough on the own, cool. This is a possible add on to the story.

It can be assumed that they didn't talk about it.  
Not a word.  
Not a syllable.  
It wasn't as unbearable in the bunker as it had been when they were trapped in a motel together, the bunker was big enough to house the two of them without being confined in small spaces together.  
There were also no more kisses. No touches, nothing more than lingering stares and purposefully not looking at each other when they were alone together.  
Sam was blissfully unaware. He had enough to worry about, and their personal lives were not something for him to fret about.  
Castiel's grace was becoming more scarce, barely enough to light his eyes, let alone finish healing his wound, so for the next two and a half weeks, he nursed his cuts with furrowed brows. He had never known a permanent pain like that before, and it scared the living hell out of him. When he wasn't busy researching or hunting, he was lamenting about how he was mortal now and became deathly afraid of any sort of mild pain. He didn't fear the life-threatening things, like werewolves or ghosts. He would jump in without a second thought, but small discomforts like cooking burns or paper cuts set him off in a way that neither Sam or Dean understood.  
But they were getting sick of it when he laid in the middle of the kitchen floor after he had jabbed the tip of his finger against the knife he was cutting up toast with. It was a piteous amount of blood, but he stared at his finger for a ridiculously long time.  
0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
Dean had not brought home (figuratively, of course, the bunker is a restricted location) a girl since the night in Wyoming, a fact that didn't slip passed Sam as easily as Dean wanted it to.  
"It's Cas," He answered with an indifferent shrug but continued before his brother's eyebrows could raise any higher.  
"When we go out to drink, I'm so focused on getting him laid, that I don't score myself, I guess." Dean took a swig of beer, keeping his nonchalance at a low, but his heart was galloping in his chest.  
Sam nodded in understanding, and they dropped the subject, thankfully.  
If it wasn't hunting monsters or fixing cars, Dean Winchester was fantastic at repressing emotions and memories. If he didn't want to think about something, he wasn't going to.  
This time, it wasn't so easy.  
He had had dreams before, dreams of monsters dragging him to the bottom of a lake or killing Sam, a symphony of screams that backed his nightmares.  
He had also had wet dreams before, and he liked those, but when he woke up hot and sweaty about the angel sleeping two doors down, he started having second thoughts.  
And third thoughts  
Fourths and fifths until he was flustered and confused, again.  
Those were hard nights to get through.  
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  
When Castiel first fell, it was horrible. His grace was still sputtering and weak back then, and he didn't find his appetite for weeks, leaving his cheeks as hollow as his eyes. It was terrifying, but especially for Dean. Sam was nervous too, but it wasn't him that Cas screamed for in the middle of the night when the night terrors gripped him with their black hold. It wasn't just Sam that tore recklessly through the halls of the bunker to get to his room first, ripping the door open and holding down the thrashing angel who screamed like the hounds of hell were tearing him apart. Sometimes, in the dreams, they were.   
It wasn't Sam that Castiel asked to stay for a moment longer, just until the fear was gone.  
So it wasn't Sam that the fallen angel turned to when he had a question or was bored, it was Dean.  
It was always Dean.  
"Dean," a rasped voice asked from the corner of his room. The older Winchester flinched in surprise but didn't turn away from the television.  
"What?" He took a sip of his beer.  
"Does this look like it's healing correctly because it seems to be itching quite a lot," the angel asked.  
Dean rolled his eyes and pivoted, ready to sneak a glance at the probably fine scab and give him a flippant answer about how he'd survive.  
The words were lost on his lips, and all the moisture in his mouth was gone.   
Castiel stood in his doorway, dripping wet. His hair stuck out in every direction, and a pale blue towel hung low on his hips. And by low, Dean could almost see everything the towel was trying to cover, from the end of his dark happy trail to wherever the deeply etched 'V' of his hips led to.  
He obviously hadn't bothered drying off, from the way the water ran down his chest and over the tattoos that littered his chest and sides.   
Cas has refused to get the anti demonic possession tattoo on his chest like the boys; instead, he had it on his side, about a foot lower than his armpit. He also opted for an anti angel possession tattoo, that one was bigger, and took up a good chunk of skin a few inches up and over the left side of his belly button. To anyone else, the tattoos seemed to be haphazardly thrown across his body, but Cas loved where he had them put.   
And seeing the way they looked on his body, Dean sort of loved them too.  
"Dean?" Cas asked again, snapping his attention away from his wet body.   
"What?" He snapped, a bit more aggressive than he intended.  
"Does it look like it's healing?"  
Cas frowned down at his side and poked at the scab, pulling at the skin around it. The slight motion made Dean fear that his towel would fall off his body entirely.  
He didn't know what he would do then.   
Dean forced his eyes to the deep pink lines that marred the perfectly golden skin of Cas' torso and licked his lips.  
"Yeah, Cas. It looks fine, it's healing fine, you're fine."  
He stumbled over his words while combatting every instinct to get off the chair and do something.  
But like a good soldier, he stayed put and watched the angel poke at the scar until he nodded in agreement.  
"I guess you're right," he conceded.  
"Is that all then?" Dean rasped out. He desperately wanted Cas to leave his room so he could continue being sexually frustrated by himself.  
"Yes." He answered but stayed in the doorway, doing nothing, in particular, just looking around the room.  
Dean bit his tongue to keep himself from barking a rude "get out" and waited for the angel to leave on his own time. It was like trying to train a middle-age dog something new, it was best to let them figure it out by themselves.  
But the thing is, Cas didn't leave. He looked around the room and rocked on his heels before walking calmly into Dean's room and perching on the edge of his bed.  
Dean watched with a clenched jaw, slowly but methodically grinding his teeth down to a stub.  
Every rude word in his lexicon percolated on the tip of his anxious tongue, a piteous and truly pathetic counteraction to the stunning realization that he wasn't completely straight.  
In a world of gods and monsters and angels, demons, and wendigos, something as trivial as sexuality shouldn't be as crucial to Dean as it was. But here he was, almost salivating after a nearly naked man on his bed, a man who he kissed all night long a few weeks prior, and still believed that there wasn't any part of him that was gay.  
Castiel must have found something interesting because he stretched across the bed and pulled the Rubix cube from Dean's nightstand. Without a second thought, he flopped on his back and tried to figure it out.   
Dean practically swallowed his tongue.  
He would have hollered at Sam for getting his bed wet, but this sure as shit wasn't his brother stretched out across his bed in nothing but a towel and miles of tanned, taut skin.  
John Winchester had so deeply ingrained that homosexuality was a sign of weakness and should be snuffed out, that Dean didn't give himself an option other than, be straight. And it wasn't like he never enjoyed the spoils of straight sex because he really truly honest to God did, but sometimes it wasn't a feminine body that caught his eye. He never entertained the idea, never consciously anyway. Whatever did or didn't happen in his dreams was not his fault.   
Maybe it wasn't because he was attracted to men. Perhaps it wasn't the broad shoulders or the long column of a throat that pulled him, but the wings that once adorned those shoulders or the halting, rough laugh that came from that throat.  
Maybe it didn't matter that the shining blue eyes that blinked up at him came from a man's body, perhaps it was just the eyes themselves.   
Maybe it was just Cas.  
Castiel had crossed his legs at the ankle, and Dean could almost reach them from the rigid spot he was in. His body was so clenched that his jaw ached.  
He wasn't sure if he was forcing himself to do it or losing the battle to hold himself back, but a shaking hand reached out and touched Cas. It was just his foot and a harmless thing to poke at. The angel didn't seem to care and continued to get Dean's bed damp and fiddle with the hunk of plastic.   
Dean traced the arch of his foot with one finger, circling an ankle, over a raised scar that must have been from Jimmy. He slid his quivering hand over the top of Cas' foot and up the backside of his calf.  
Though these are simple enough actions, it took all the concentration in Dean's body. A parade of previous presidents could have marched through the room riding kangaroos, and Dean wouldn't have known.  
Cas still played quietly with the toy as Dean came to a stop at the back of his knee, holding it securely in his grip.  
"Cas," he murmured. The angel hummed back a disinterested response.   
"Why are you still in my room?" He tried to make the words sound as least painful as possible, but it still didn't take the nature of them away.   
Castiel thought for a second and rolled his head, so he was facing the hunter. His innocent blue eyes did something to Dean's stomach.  
"Why are you holding on to my leg?"He countered.   
Dean faltered.  
He could lie, sure. He had no fucking idea what to say, but he could definitely lie. It was one thing that he was very good at.   
But he couldn't. He couldn't make himself force out a lie, not at this moment.  
"Because I don't think I could stop if I wanted to." He answered, his hand still curled around his knee.  
"Do you want to stop?"  
It was an innocent enough question, but Dean could already feel himself folding in on himself.  
"Do you want me to stop?" He redirected, not wanting to answer it. Cas didn't seem to notice and sighed, going back to his puzzle.  
"No."  
Dean let out a breath of relief that he didn't know he was holding in.  
His fingers continued their search but never traveling above the knee.  
Somehow, he found himself no longer sitting in his desk chair, Dr.Sexy was completely forgotten playing in the background.  
He was kneeling on the side of his bed, fingers tracing up the angel's arm. Over the pale veins in his wrist, up to his warm forearm, over the crease in his elbow, up his bicep, and onto his chest.  
The whole time, Dean's heart raced in his ribcage, and he watched Castiel for any sign to stop, but he found none.  
His fingers glanced over the protrusion of his collarbone and dusted over the hollow of his throat.  
The angel's own nervous fidgeting with the toy slowed down. He slowly turned his head and watched Dean curiously.  
"What?" Dean growled, suddenly self-conscious.  
"Nothing," he whispered back, his voice still deeply hoarse. Dean could feel the vibration under his stilled fingers. It made him nervously bite his tongue.   
"I'm just remembering," Castiel's eyes drifted down to Dean's lips. A sensation that he hadn't felt since he was in high school squirmed through him.  
A God damn crush.  
A gentle blush graced his cheeks when he remembered too, even though it just a night of chaste kisses and interlocked fingers like some sort of prudish virgins, he still liked the idea of just holding Cas for the night.   
"Is that a good memory?" He tried, while his hand trailed up his jaw and swooped under his eye.  
"Yes."  
Dean was close now, closer than before, and he vibrated with anticipation. He was happy, at that moment, that Castiel was far more human than an angel, therefore not giving him more heightened senses to precept his anxiety.  
Though all of this made him nervous and chew his nails down to the bed, he couldn't think of a place he'd rather be than kneeling on a cold floor worshiping an angel with his touch.  
Ever so slowly, Dean brought his face closer to Cas' until there was no more room left to give.  
This time, it wasn't really an introductory kiss anymore.   
Their lips were like old souls that finally found one another, hungry for each other in a way that was new to both of them.   
The Rubix cube was dropped and bounced off the bed, clacking hard on the wood floor, but neither seemed to even notice. Castiel's hands wound up Dean's shoulders until they landed at the back of his neck, where they circled around him, not letting him go.  
Castiel tasted like mint toothpaste, and Listerine, along with the smell of his body wash, made Dean hungry in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.  
Slowly, he rose from his kneeling position, the creak in his knees easily forgotten on this day as he found a better footing and ended up hovering over Cas, dangerously close to straddling him. His hands were planted on either side of Cas' neck.  
Goosebumps raced down Cas' body, something that didn't go unnoticed by the hunter.  
Everything about Castiel was cool, like a breeze or the other side of the pillow. It was reassuring, and a welcomed clash against the raging heat coursing through his own body, the touch of their lips was like two different atmospheric pressures colliding, and a tornado was imminent.  
Dean collected what little courage he had left and ran his tongue along the seam of Cas' lips. The angel's grip on the back of his neck tightened before sliding free, running back down over a shoulder, and resting on his chest in one fluid movement. His other hand was busy running his finger along the shell of his ear.  
Tentatively, the angel parted his lips in a sigh that set Dean's hands into fists in the blankets in his grip.  
Who knew an exhale could be so god damn lewd.   
Speaking of God, he might need to shut his eyes and ears because Dean had many ideas that he wanted to try out before the night was over.  
Since Castiel was more human now than he had ever been, he found himself relinquishing under the weight of human instinct. When he was an angel, he never felt anything like this. Never excitement or hunger, just pure contentedness.   
So he let himself be pulled in by the promise of temptation and instinct.  
He pulled his fingers through Dean's short sandy hair, and with his other hand, he slowly slipped it under the neckline of his shirt and felt the strong, rolling muscles of his back.  
Dean made a sound low in his throat that sounded remarkably close to a growl. Cas' stomach tightened as the sound filled his body.  
Dean broke the kiss with his eyes sealed shut, the look on his face took the breath straight from the angel's lungs. He was so beautiful, the light of the lamp highlighting the strong lines of his nose, lighting up each freckle individually, making Cas want to kiss each one. His kiss reddened lips parted as he sucked in a breath. He looked like he was in pain, but better.  
It made the angel squirm.  
The serene moment snapped away, and Dean's lips gently traipsed down Castiel's jawline and under his ear. Dean exhaled his held breath down the back of Cas' neck, and he shivered. His reaction was met with a grin, which he also felt on his neck.  
Hot, open-mouthed kisses worked their way down his throat, and he craned his neck back to allow Dean better access.  
Dean grunted and moved his legs, he couldn't reach everything he wanted to. He threw a leg over Castiel's, straddling his upper thighs.   
Happy with his decision that made Cas flush from head to toe, Dean traced the outline of Cas' protruding Adam's apple with the tip of his tongue.  
Castiel let out a noise that was a cross of a hiccup and a moan. Dean took that noise as encouragement and continued his adventure downward.  
The hollow of his throat was a good spot for the barest of kisses, just enough to feel the heat of his skin on his throat, enough to make him squirm.   
Dean liked making people squirm, especially when they were underneath him.   
The hunter took his time down his body, ignoring anything that might elicit a noise louder than what they were bartering for, considering that they weren't in the bunker alone.  
Castiel gasped loudly and arched his back when Dean carefully dragged his teeth over Cas's good side.  
Dean smiled against his skin and licked the slightest of scrapes that would be healed before the next sunrise.  
The hunter licked and sucked and swirled his tongue, grazing with his teeth and teasing with his breaths.  
Castiel was panting like a marathon runner, his fingers tangled deeply into Dean's hair as he explored his body with his tongue.  
Cas could get used to this, and that revelation scared him in a way he didn't understand.  
"Cas?" The deep voice echoing down the hallway made Dean's stomach drop clear to his feet.  
He stood up so fast his head spun. He launched himself to the door and braced his shoulder against it as his brother passed his door to look in Cas' room, calling out his name the whole time.  
Dean's heart pounded in his chest, making his whole body ache. Adrenaline ran rampant in him, along with the fear of getting caught by his brother.  
Castiel watched him from the bed, braced up on his elbows with parted lips and wild hair.  
"Dean," Sam rapped his knuckles on the door. Dean screwed his eyes shut and waited for Sam to continue.  
"Have you seen Cas?"  
Dean hesitated and glanced at the angel, clothed in only a towel, and sprawled across his bed with faint suck marks marring his stomach and chest, his own teeth imprinted on his sides.  
"No." Dean lied, using the most nonchalant voice he had. "Maybe he went out," he offered the suggestion, and Sam grunted in response before walking back down the hall.  
Dean let out a breath and slid down the door, resting his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
"Should I go see what he wants?" Cas piqued up from the bed.  
No, don't leave. Stay, for the love of God, don't go. Dean thought to himself but shrugged instead. He desperately wanted the angel to stay so he could carry on with his experiments.  
"You should probably put on pants first," Dean answered dryly. "And wipe that look of your face,"  
"What look?" He frowned  
Dean stood slowly and regarded the angel with heavy eyes, allowing to show just a bit of how he felt.  
"The look that makes me think that you shouldn't leave this room,"  
The frown smoothed out, but a faint blush alighted on his cheeks when he understood what he meant.  
"Oh."  
"Go get dressed," Dean said gruffly and walked out of his bedroom first, latching it shut and went to go stall Sam so it would like that Cas was just in the shower the whole time and not on Dean's bed, learning how to forget his name.  
Oh god. Dean thought and ran a hand over his face. It was hard enough when he just knew the taste of Castiel's lips, now he had to ignore the fact that he knew what (almost) the rest of him tasted like too.  
He wasn't going to sleep a wink that night.  
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Castiel walked into the kitchen ten minutes later, dressed and clean, a loose T-shirt and sweatpants and floppy hair that stuck out in all directions.  
Dean had to look away, from his sex hair to the corded veins circling his arms, Dean had to say a prayer.  
Cas gave a half-assed excuse to the younger Winchester about how he was in the shower and didn't hear him calling when Sam confronted him.  
Liar, Dean thought. Lift up your shirt and show him the bite marks on your stomach that will last till morning.  
But Dean just listened calmly from his perch at the table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper in his hand.


	3. Arizona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter  
> What does Arizona have to offer them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I lack creativity, I borrowed some of the chapter from another one of my works and tailored it to fit the scene. Sorry, not sorry.  
> Also, I don't think I can italicize words on here, or at least I don't know how. Big sad.

In the beginning, it hadn't been intentional to leave Sam out of the hunts, but now it was.  
Dean couldn't find it in himself to care though, not when Cas looked so good in the passenger side of his Impala, humming along to the songs from the speakers.  
They could sit for hours in silence, or talk about nothing at all. It was amazing. Castiel would come up with the oddest questions. Sudden desperate inquires about human things that seemed evident to Dean but not to the fallen angel.  
"How long did you believe in the tooth fairy?"  
"Do you ever, as a human, get used to having an itch?"  
"How long can you hold your breath? The longest I could was two minutes and eight seconds before my head started to hurt,"  
And Dean would sit there with a smirk and shake his head, dutifully answering each question as it came.  
"I never did, but Sammy did for a long time,"  
"No,"  
"I guess I've never really timed myself, Cas,"  
On and on, they would go, stopping along the road to diners and dive bars, ordering enough burgers to make Sam sigh.  
"I love beef," Cas sighed, staring at his burger.  
Dean glanced at it, suddenly a little jealous of the sandwich.  
"Me too buddy, me too," He took a chomp out of his burger, but found himself enjoying watching Cas eat than chowing down on his own food.  
That, for sure, was a first.  
"Can we get pie after this?" Castiel hummed, licking ketchup off of his thumb.  
Dean was fairly certain that the waitress wouldn't take too kindly to him diving across their corner booth and kissing the daylights out of the man sitting opposite him, but he thought about it for a long moment.  
"Uh, yeah, we can get pie," Dean replied gruffly after staring for too long at the thumb that had briefly disappeared into Cas' mouth.  
Cas nodded enthusiastically at the promise.  
"I get it now, the pie. I didn't get it for a long time, but now I do,"  
"You understand pie now?" Dean asked, not able to keep the smile away.  
"Yes," Cas answered sagely. "It's delicious. I get it now."  
The waitress bustled back, a woman that John would have nudged Dean in the leg and winked at, but John wasn't here, and thank any god for that.  
"Can I get you two gorgeous boys anything?" She drawled out, winking at Cas, who smiled politely back up at her.  
"The check, please," Dean responded, hardly having enough patience to say please.  
"Yessir," She simpered, sauntering back to the counter.  
A moment stretched by, and Dean could feel Cas' eyes on him.  
"She's right, you know. You are gorgeous," He said gravely.  
Dean spluttered.  
"What?!"  
He cocked his head in the way that adorable puppy way, and Dean found himself blushing. Blushing. Like a fucking teenage girl.  
"Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. It is exceedingly difficult to ignore that fact. I noticed it back even when I had my wings,"  
Dean couldn't close his mouth. He worked words over in his mouth, thinking of anything to say, but found nothing. On anyone else, he could shoot back a compliment almost instantly, but not then.  
The vivacious waitress came back and set the bill on the booth. Dean scooped it up immediately and followed her to the register.  
"I know I'm out of line asking you this," She said quietly as she punched in the numbers on the machine "But how long have you two been dating?"  
Dean's heart stopped beating.  
Someone knew.  
She had seen through the macho bullshit, the not touching, and the minimal eye contact.  
If she could figure it out, then so could Sam. Bobby. Any other hunter or monster that wanted them dead. Anyone that would use Cas against him because of it.  
The twenty-dollar bill was frozen with his hand, halfway to the register.  
His mind raced, and his heart surged in his chest, threatening to break out of his ribcage.  
Someone had figured it out, and it wasn't a secret anymore.  
The waitress sighed, chastising herself. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I probably read the situation all wrong, I'm sorry again,"  
"Four months," Dean interrupted, uncharacteristically fast. She stopped.  
"We've been together for four months," He forced the words out, almost choking on every syllable.  
He hadn't felt this free in a long time. She was a stranger in an even stranger town, one that he would never go to again, so it didn't matter. She didn't know their names, anything about them, but the duration of their relationship.  
She grinned at him, handing him his change.  
"Congrats. He's quite the cutie," She looked over to Cas. Dean followed her gaze and looked at his angel sitting passively at the table, content look on his face, hair all scruffed up.  
The free feeling didn't ebb; it only grew as he looked at Cas for longer.  
He became acutely aware that not a soul in this Arizona town knew who he or Cas was, and they didn't give a shit about them. They didn't care that Dean liked guys or that Castiel was a fallen angel.  
It was a wondrous thing to feel.  
"He is, isn't he?" Dean agreed. He waved away the change, letting her keep the ten dollars as a tip, and walked back to their booth.  
"Ready to go get pie?" He questioned.  
Cas nodded and slid out of the bench, completely caught off guard when Dean locked their fingers together.  
It was the first time he had held his hand, and it was nerve-wracking.  
He didn't know the hell why it was so scary, especially compared to everything else he did every other week, but none of that ever happened in front of the public. No one could ever see him covered in vampire blood and judge him, because no one ever saw.  
But they could see their hands pressed together, open for all to see.  
And no one said a single god-damned word as they walked out the door, the exception being their waitress who tossed them a knowing wink.  
Dean's heart thrummed in the back of his throat, wild with the new adventure.  
He laced their fingers together again when they got into the Impala, rubbing his thumb over Cas' knuckles. They were without scars, no fistfights in his past. Dean wondered what it would be like to live without scars, torture marks on his soul, bites on his legs, or one too many falls down the stairs courtesy of a ghost.  
Cas seemed to bask in the added affection, his hand laying palm up next to the gear shift, Dean's fingers on his pulse. It was reassuring to have it under his fingertips to feel the drum of his heart. Sometimes it was hard to forget how easy it is to lose something like a heartbeat.  
~0~  
"Are you my boyfriend?" Castiel questioned after a stretch of silence. He was always so nonchalant about this sort of thing. It never bothered Dean, but it caught him off guard.  
"Umm," Dean stuttered, fork froze in the air, caught in the expectant gaze of Castiel.  
They had found a small cafe that served pie, and they had gone into the building hand in hand, refusing to let anyone ruin the night.  
"Boyfriend? I thought angels didn't have genders," he deflected with a slightly panicked chuckle.  
"I'm not an angel anymore, and this body has a penis, so I think it would be accurate to say 'boyfriend'"  
Dean spluttered, unable to look away from Cas.  
"I guess you're right," he conceded.  
"That I have a penis or that we're boyfriends?" Cas' brow wrinkled in confusion.  
"Please stop saying penis," Dean sighed, closing his eyes for a brief second.  
"Does that make you uncomfortable?" Castiel inquired, the apple pie forgotten in front of him.  
"Oh, Cas, nothing about you makes me uncomfortable," Dean grinned, a hungry sort of smile.  
Castiel didn't understand why he blushed when Dean said that.  
"I guess the question I should have asked was, do you want to be my boyfriend?" asked the angel, well, ex-angel.  
Dean stilled, his mouth shrinking into a smaller, harsher line than before.  
He wanted to say yes, emphatically, repeatedly. He wanted it so badly that it sometimes hurt, carving a hollowness in his chest that he could only fill with Cas. He wanted it more than he had wanted anything in a long time.  
But Mom had died.  
Jess had died.  
Bobby's wife died.  
The only reason Lisa was still alive, and Ben too, was that Dean wasn't there with them. A factor in their survival was the absence of Dean.  
The hunter's curse. The death of the people you loved the most.  
But how could he say that? How could he tell Cas that he couldn't say that they were together, that as soon as this was real, he would find Cas dead in the morning?  
"Yes," Dean replied honestly, his gut wrenched at the loophole he had found. Cas had asked if Dean wanted Cas to be his boyfriend, and the answer was a resounding yes. But not that they were.  
He grinned back at Cas, the guilt already finding a home in his stomach, and it settled in for the long haul.  
Castiel beamed at him with crinkled eyes and flushed cheeks.  
~0~  
"This is very inaccurate," Castiel commented, sprawled across the motel bed, bible in his hands. He was already in his pajamas and was silently thrilled at the way Dean's eyes paused at the line of his stomach that was visible.  
"Oh?" Dean asked around the toothbrush in his mouth, amused.  
"Yes. Noah did not have sons; he had daughters. Six of them. And they were wonderful people. I haven't met anyone yet who is on equal to them in kindness and strength," He flipped the page, frown intact.  
"Hey," Dean mumbled, quirking an eyebrow. "What about me?" he asked. It sounded more like 'wha' 'bowt we?' but Cas understood him.  
"Earlier today, I watched you violently shoot a werewolf to death," He commented drily, his point lost on his tongue when he realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt.  
"That's fair,"  
Dean walked back into the bathroom and finished brushing his teeth. Castiel kept his eyes on the book in his hands, pretending that all of his focus wasn't on Dean as he walked around the room and the way his pants were low on his hips. The hunter checked all of the salt lines on each window and made sure that the door was locked. When he was convinced that every shade was drawn and every crack was sealed, he turned to the beds. There were two of them, side by side, an equally horrifying pattern on the bedspreads.  
But Dean settled next to him all the same, purposefully knocking the book around in his hands while he settled in on his stomach, side pressed tight against Cas'. His bare stomach pushed into Cas' arm, hot and smooth.  
"Are you in the bible?" He mumbled into Cas' shoulder, causing him to forget that he was holding the book.  
"No," Cas sighed back. "I am never mentioned by name, but I was part of the garrison that slaughtered the firstborns in Egypt," He replied quietly, freezing after a moment of consideration about how Dean might feel about that.  
The man said nothing, his arm locking around Cas' stomach and pulling him closer, humming gently in the back of his throat. The sound shivered through Cas.  
"You're not angry with me for that?" The fallen angel asked, equal parts mollified and befuddled.  
"Cas, both of us have done shitty things at the request of our fathers. And that happened like a thousand years ago, and I think I can forgive you."  
"Alright," he sighed, wriggling more in-depth into the hold.  
~0~  
Sleep was something that the angel had yet to grasp fully. He needed it, and sometimes it was wonderful, but right now, it was a forgotten concept.  
Dean was so beautifully human.  
Castiel had been astonished the first time he had seen the man without his angelic influence. It had been a revelation, to say the least.  
And once in a while, Cas' breath was swept from his lungs at just how gloriously human the Winchester was. The way his skin moved over rippling muscles, the way the tendons fit with the bones, how fantastically distracting the veins and arteries in his hands were. He liked kissing those hands, feeling the rough, callused palms at his lips, and he enjoyed the soft, surprised look on Dean's face as well.  
And now he lay there, sleep evading him without a care in the world, studying the magnificent person draped across him.  
Not able to keep his hands to himself for a second longer, he traced a featherlight touch over Dean's collarbone, reveling in the grooves and dips. He skimmed his fingers down his shoulder and skated across his bicep, following a particularly large vein to the top of his hand. He drew patterns on it while the minutes ticked by, the hunter happily sleeping in his arms.  
Like a cat, Dean stretched out under his touch, a drowsy smirk on his mouth.  
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked, fingers splayed across Castiel's stomach. The pressure points from his fingertips had Cas curiously warm.  
A few weeks ago, he would launch into an explanation about how he still wasn't fully adjusted to being a human, and he hadn't quite grasped any circadian rhythm yet, but not now. He wasn't nearly as clever with his words as Dean, but he was figuring out how to make a sentence work for him.  
"You didn't kiss me goodnight," he tried the words on for size, hoping that it would have the desired effect.  
Dean huffed out a laugh, but he didn't try to hide the way his body tensed up, or how his hand was pressing a little harder into Cas' stomach.  
"Well," he drawled," Then why didn't you wake me up sooner?"  
Dean tasted sharp like mint toothpaste, and Cas's hands were cold, where they settled on his shoulders. It melted something in Cas, making him feel warm and liquid.  
A brave tongue peeked out from behind rose lips and carefully ran across the seam of Dean's mouth. They laid side by side, bodies impatiently waiting for the right moment to come together.  
"You're eager," Dean commented, fingers lazily tapping at the hollow of Cas' throat, making his heart erratic at the casualness of the action.  
"It's not every night I have you in bed, Dean," he replied, running his hands over his shoulders and settling nicely on the back of his neck, toying with his hair.  
Dean laughed into his neck, tracing the cut of Cas' jaw with his nose, words murmured against his fevered skin. It took every ounce of Cas' self-control not to squirm. There was no helping him when that control broke, though.  
"I never thought you'd be a thief, and a bad one at that," His chest was pressed solidly against Castiel's now, the deep rumble of his voice vibrated against him, and he couldn't think of anything better. He spoke the words so close to Cas's ear that goosebumps erupted all over his body, eliciting an unwanted shiver.  
"What do you mean?" he questioned. "I haven't stolen anything,"  
Dean stilled, and Cas mentally kicked himself. He didn't know what he said wrong, but it had been something.  
"What did you say?" He pulled far enough back that he could see Cas's face, even though it was dark in the cozy room. The pale blue light from the moon bathed him with a layer of ethereal that Cas has never seen before. Stars above, he is beautiful.  
"Uhm, that I haven't stolen anything?" He choked out, face hot but not out of embarrassment. Something wild turned in his lower stomach in the hungry way that Dean was looking at him.  
"Is that so? Well, I've changed my mind, the shirt you're wearing is actually mine, and I want it back,"  
Castiel stared up at him; mouth popped open.  
"Now, please. And close your mouth, you never know what might get in there when you keep it open," though Dean's words were commanding, his cheeks filled with color.  
It was one of Dean's better-kept secrets. The personality he used around other people called for him to be controlling and dominant, aloof, and indifferent at all times. But it wasn't him, not really.  
He hasn't been reduced to flustered blushing and butterfly assaults in his stomach since he was in his teens. Now, there was one of the most beautiful human beings he had ever met wearing his clothes; delicious pink lips parted, leading to a glistening mouth, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and heavy brown eyes. And my god, he looked just as ravenous.  
Cas sat up slowly, the sheet pooling at his waist. In one fluid, drawn-out movement, he pulled the shirt over his head and handed it to Dean.  
Dean's mouth went cotton dry.  
He wasn't scarred up from a childhood of monsters and shotguns. There was no healed up keloid mark on his back from where he got shot with rock-salt when another hunter's shot went wide. No burns on his waist from putting too hot guns back in his belt, no jut of uneven bone tented under his flesh where a rib had set wrong, no skinned elbows that Dean somehow managed to have even though he was thirty. The only scars were where his wings were torn from his body and the now pale pink mark on his side.  
Miles of smooth, tan skin and Dean wanted to touch so bad it almost hurt.  
"Here," He dropped the crumpled shirt onto Dean's chest, running his hands over his now bare arms as they met the cold air.  
"I didn't think your generosity would fail you so quickly," Cas commented, still sitting up.  
Dean formed words with his mouth, but he couldn't carry on this menial conversation, even though on most days, he found himself capable of talking with Castiel for hours about nothing at all. But he had nothing to say that his tongue could articulate, his vocabulary was too small to cover the big feeling in his chest that propelled his arm up and out. His warm, rough palm rested gently on Cas's lower back. If they were strangers, this is where Dean would touch if he were trying to get past him, so it seemed like an innocent enough location to begin. His hand was dark against his satin skin, too harsh and scarred to truly belong handling such soft skin. He moved his thumb back and forth as gently as he could.  
Cas shivered, goosebumps erupted up the lumps of his spine, tightening the skin under his touch.  
Dean wanted this, everything about it. Especially the words, telling him that this wasn't wrong or bad, that he wasn't alone in the heat that gobbled up his body and craved the weight of Cas's body on top of his own.  
"I like it when you touch me," It was a simple statement. Castiel was not one for long, drawn-out speeches about feelings or motives. While some had a gift for lengthening sentences to convey, Cas was in the department of blunt, bittersweet deliverance of information.  
He turned his head and rested his chin on his naked shoulder, cheeks pink. "Is that an odd thing to say?"  
"No," Dean managed to say, his voice was a bit gruffer than he intended.  
Cas nodded and slowly laid back down  
Dean's hand still tucked away nicely in the small of his back.  
He left the blankets at his waist, long, tan torso on display. A sweet hum began in his lower stomach, hungry.  
"Can you say that again?" Dean's mouth hovered over Cas's neck, waiting for the dinner bell to be rung. His pulse sang under his tongue.  
"I like it when you touch me-" he shivered as lips met his skin, Dean's tongue loving the cut of his jaw and the hollow of his throat,  
"I want you." He exhaled, dangerously close to a moan, the noise surprising them both.  
It was the most delicious thing Dean had ever heard.  
Dean devoured him.  
He put on a good show of being a ladies man, but Dean could count on two hands the number of people he had sprawled out like a canvas beneath him.  
They had kissed before. Dean had stood between Cas's legs weeks ago and wondered the rest of him tasted like, and it had all been a prelude to this moment.  
But this was fantastically different.  
Cas's hands roamed Dean's body like a musician learning a new instrument. As their mouths got to know each other better, teeth and tongues and lips, Cas's nimble fingers searched his body.  
Unlike Castiel, whose body was unblemished from years of indoor life, Dean was a roadmap of every indiscretion he ever lived through.  
His piano fingers loved each faded bruise and old scar, found each mark on his body that hadn't healed right, and said not a word.  
He also found the demonic possession tattoo on his left pectoral. He stopped his touches, gave it a gentle kiss.  
He murmured gently to the ink, thanking it for the years it had protected him.  
"How are you this perfect?" Dean could hardly breathe with those eyes on him like that.  
"You haven't seen all of me yet," Castiel flirted back.  
"Is that a challenge?"  
"More of an invitation,"  
It had been about a year since someone had been wrapped around Dean so tightly, fingers woven deep in his hair, legs circling his hips, mouth exhaling noises that made his blood run hot in his veins.  
Cas was a change from what he had before. It has always been a soft body with curves, long hair that got tangled around his fingers, and painted fingernails trailing up his spine.  
He had never before pressed a hard body into a mattress, a person without much give and no curves, blunt fingertips biting into his shoulder and something hot and stiff against his thigh, not the other way around.  
As Cas ran his fingers through his hair and sighed softly into his mouth while Dean traced his lips with his tongue, Dean waited for the disgust to come boiling through his body like half of his conscious brain thought it would. Dean, ten years ago, hell, a year ago, would have balked at the thought of shamelessly kissing another man, eagerly swallowing up his quiet noises and loving the feeling of his back under his fingertips. But there was nothing, just the shivering ache of what was to come.  
There were no condoms in the bedside drawer. Castiel had checked. He hadn't had the foresight to pack any, and he couldn't make himself ask Dean if he had brought some. He hardly understood the purpose of them, but he had seen on a television show once that you needed condoms to have sex. Though the hunter as thoroughly enjoying himself, he could feel as much; he was scared that what was happening was a fragile little bubble they were in, and asking for such a thing would shatter it like a wine glass on concrete. That would make it real. It would make all of this terribly real, every kiss and touch, and lingering stare.  
"What?" Dean asked, teeth dangerously close to biting his chest. Cas's stomach danced at the thought.  
'Huh?" He gasped out, not able to look away.  
"I just lost you for a second, where'd you go? Am I going too fast?" He frowned, his body flushed and bathed in pale moonlight coming in through a crack in the shades. Just looking at him made Cas's throat dry. He wasn't shaped like a swimsuit model; he was built like someone who owed every ounce of muscle they had to work with their hands and living in environments where they worked hard manual labor.  
Cassupposed it was the only good thing that came out of a hunter's life.  
"I was uhm...actually thinking the same thing. That maybe I was going too fast for you..." Cas cracked an awkward smile, as shy as he could get with a part of his body that was not shy in the slightest, straining out to touch him.  
Dean sat back on his haunches; head cocked as he surveyed the person before him. Cas's hair was wild from greedy fingers trying to take root in it; his tan skin was marked up with purpling bites and hard marked kisses. But his eyes, nothing could make his heart beat faster. Savage and gleaming with what he was sure could be seen in his own, but Cas was still in there, always evaluating and calculating things at speeds that Dean could never comprehend.  
Dean licked his lips, and Cas's breath hitched in his chest as he watched, no other choice but with eyes wide.  
"I think we're going at a pace that will take us exactly where we want to go," he trailed his palms over his knees and up to his thighs, all while a shivering Cas watched until his fingers curled at his hips. "Don't you think, Cas?" He asked, sincerely.  
His hands were so hot like he had held them over a fire before grabbing him. His thumbs stroked the cut of his stomach, and Cas felt himself shallowly surging up, shocking himself.  
"I think if we go any slower, I very well might scream." He responded.  
He recognized his questionable choice of wording as Dean's smile turned downright wicked.  
"I think you've got it mixed up Cas," he purred, callused hands tightening on his hips, and in one solid, strong motion, Cas's entire body had slid a foot and a half down, his ass colliding with Dean's thighs. He let out a soft surprised noise that made his neck and face flush deeper, but Dean was hovering over him, hot breath on his neck and in his ear as he whispered, "I'll make you scream, no matter how slow we go,"  
Oh fuck.  
"Prove it then, take off my pants," Cas's hands smoothed over his fevered skin, fingernails trailing up and down his back, Dean growled against his throat, vibrating his whole body. Neither of them was sure where the angel's dirty mouth was coming from, but they weren't going to complain.  
Warm, calloused hands rested on his waist, long fingers curling around the elastic of his flannel pajama pants. Cas lifted up his hips, and Dean slid them down past his thighs and off his body entirely. Though this was happening all under the blankets, a streak of nerves shot through the both of them.  
Dean was the only one who really knew he what he was doing, and that was a long shot at the moment.  
Dean lowered himself down until his chest was brushing against Cas's, pressing him into the bed with his whole body.  
Dean swallowed the soft moans Casexhaled. Cas's parted legs grew curious and brave, bored with just laying splayed; they traveled up until they were looped around Dean's waist.  
"Why are you still wearing pants?" Caspanted, grinding himself up against Dean.  
"Fuck," he growled, face buried in Cas's neck as he involuntarily thrust back.  
Something witty wanted to leave Cas's mouth, but the feeling of Dean surging up against him, the way he didn't slam into him but swept him up into it like an ocean wave, it made every nerve in his body squirm and bask in the heat. It was exciting like he hadn't felt before.  
They danced on the edge of something beautiful and something terrible, but right then, they were the only two left in the world.  
Dean opened his mouth to apologize, but Cas beat him to it. "The word sorry is not allowed in this room."  
"Okay," he ground out, teeth dragging on the side of Cas's neck as he slowly sat up.  
It as too dark to tell exactly what he was doing, but Cas heard him shuffle for a second, then the soft sound of his pajama pants hitting the floor.  
The realness of the situation struck them both as he hovered over Cas, now that both of them were naked. Dean was on his hands and knees, palms on either side of Cas's head, knees between Cas's. He didn't want to say that he didn't know what he was doing, that if he weren't a man, he would be in his element. Though he didn't breathe a word of that out loud, Cas seemed to understand all of it. With his left hand, Cas cupped his face and kissed him gently, so sweet it made him hungry.  
Slowly, he wrapped his legs around his lower back, bringing their bodies together. The noise that Dean made had Cas grinning. It was caught between his name and a cuss, a moan and a growl and it settled over Cas's body like a weighted blanket, giving him courage. He craved to know what other sounds he could make him utter.  
Dean was hot, everything about him was burning and boiling and sweltering, his lips on Cas's mouth, his hands by his shoulders, the delicious heat of their bodies touching but not yet moving, holding perfectly still.  
A brave hand slid between their bodies, loving the way Dean's body shivered at the touch. He still had yet to move, on his hands and knees, hovering over Cas, scared that the already burning coil around his spine would ruin the fun too early if he moved.  
As Cas wrapped his fingers around Dean, a clear and growling "Fuck," was said against his shoulder as his head dropped to it.  
"If you say so," Cas whispered back, sliding his curled hand up and down, tortuously slow.  
Dean chuffed out half a laugh against his skin.  
Cas pressed himself tighter against him and slowly started shallowly thrusting his hips.  
Neither was ready for anything more in-depth that night, supplies, and bravery were lacking in that department. But that didn't stop them from this tangled sheets masterpiece of messy kisses and sharp gasps as they slid against each other, rolling their hips against each other's, reveling in the wash of feeling that splashed over them with each movement. Feeling Dean's lips moving in random patterns and hearing panted mumbles in his ear, Cas felt the need to raise questions.  
"Are you saying something?" Cas asked, and in Dean's opinion, he had no business looking the way he did. Tan body flushed, hair wild and eyes gleaming, with each soft snap of Dean's hips, his whole body rocked with him, sliding him up and down on the white sheets.  
"Yes," he whispered, knowing anything louder would have come out a groan.  
"Why?" He marveled, lip catching between his teeth as Dean changed their position. No longer where his legs around the hunter's waist, but flat on the bed, spread wide while he shamelessly rutted against him. He slid a rough hand under Cas's lower back and changed the angle of his hips, an action that elicited a low moan from his clenched jaw.  
"I'm apologizin',"  
"For what?"  
"Whoever changes these sheets is gonna need a raise,"  
Cas laughed until Dean swallowed the sound, crushing their mouths together, his body never ceases to move.  
It had been too long for Dean, and he knew it would cut his ministrations shorter than he wanted, but from the glassy eyes, open-mouthed panting happening from Cas underneath him, he knew his end would be a shared thing.  
Cas's hands scoured his body, finding a spot on the backs of his thighs, pulling Dean against faster and harder.  
He fought with himself for a second, but for reasons, he never thought. Do I kiss him or watch his face?  
He pulled far enough away from Cas's face to get a good look at it, and just watching his face almost pushed him over the edge. Impossibly blue eyes barely shut and fluttering with every thrust, head tilted back and mouth open.  
Balancing on the one hand, he slipped the other between their feverish bodies and curled his fingers around both of them.  
With his newfound grip, he snapped his hips against Cas's, letting him set the pace with his hands at the backs of his thighs, fingers biting his flesh in a way that only felt good right then.  
From the way he pushed and pulled, Dean thought for a fleeting second that he might not be able to keep up with him, but Cas didn't seem to notice.  
A low, continuous hum bounced from Cas with every surge against him.  
Dean heard his name leave his lips twice, once as a warning and the other significantly louder. Cas's back arched, hands abandoning his legs and holding on to Dean's shoulders as he cried out.  
Dean was right for wanting to watch. It was art if he ever saw it.  
Hearing his name gasping on Cas's breath did him in. He shuddered long and hard, riding out the tremendous waves with slow hips and murmured words.  
He collapsed on the bed, not all of him missing Cas, his shoulder coming to rest atop his.  
Both of them rolled over to face each other, bodies intertwined, and eyes locked. They floated in their little bliss bubble for a few minutes before Cas finally whispered, "Hello,"  
"Hey," Dean grinned, slow and lazy.  
"I'm sticky," Cas observed.  
"Huh, wonder why,"  
Cas dreamily ran his fingers through Dean's hair, pressing their lips together for the sweetest kiss.  
"I understand it now, sex,"  
Dean laughed, a throaty, warm sound. "Oh, you think so?"  
"Yes. Before, I could never grasp why people would want to do something that required so much effort and," his cheeks flared a bit pinker, "and fluids, but I understand now,"  
"So, does that mean you'll want to do it again?" Dean joked but was completely serious. He would always abide by the angel's wishes, but it would still be a stab to the heart.  
"Oh, absolutely," he affirmed emphatically.  
Dean smiled, unable to keep the feeling in his chest contained. It was an expanding feeling, pushing out and pressing on his heart, like a balloon of sunshine in his chest. He hated how it sounded, but he refused to think about it further.  
His rough palms captured either side of Castiel's face, holding it steady. Dean's mouth worked for words, lips twisting, and tongue searching for how to say it.  
His eyes, oh those beautiful eyes, eyes that Castiel had fallen for in every sense of the word.  
He saved him from the agony of the search and kissed him gently, pouring every ounce of heartbreak and understanding into the gesture. He knew what he was trying to say and why he couldn't say it.  
"You don't have to say it. I know. And Dean," he paused, "me too."  
Dean sighed and relaxed, nodding.  
~0~  
The night was black, and the company was excellent. They drifted in and out of sleep for hours, curled tightly around each other.  
From Castiel's calculations, it was almost dawn. In less than five minutes, the first morning rays would peek over the horizon.  
Dean seemed to see this too.  
"I love you," he whispered, letting the admission slip out before the sun could see them and tell the world, tell all of the monsters and fate herself.  
The moon was better at keeping secrets.  
"I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> I have this published on Wattpad, under the name 'Good Enough', (I wrote it, I didn't just steal it)  
> I don't know if this is going to be a one-shot or if I'll add onto it.  
> Have any strong opinions about it? Let me know, I don't have a productive life and I'll work on it.


End file.
